


Nothing Fades Like the Light

by Kirsten221b



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirsten221b/pseuds/Kirsten221b
Summary: Holland Vosijk deserves a softer epilogue.
Relationships: Kell Maresh & Holland Vosijk, Kell Maresh/Holland Vosijk
Kudos: 31





	Nothing Fades Like the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this fic contains spoilers for all three books in the Shades of Magic series.
> 
> I loved the Shades of Magic Series but I was a bit disappointed with the way things ended for Holland. I felt his narrative arc was deeply tragic but offered little else. So I decided to give him a second chance. 
> 
> Enjoy!

*6 years ago* 

Vortalis returns stained red. Everything from the sharp planes of his face to the hem of his traveling cloak has been coated in gore. He reeks of metal and blood. Just like the scent of White London's magic, but amplified in a way that turns Holland’s stomach.  
"What happened?" Holland asks while unclipping the fastenings of Vortalis' ruined cloak. He still can't tell if the blood is the King's or someone else's.  
"Uprisings along the Northern borders. I did what I could."  
Holland swallows. At the beginning of Vortalis' reign, he thought he wouldn't have to wait for the mythical Someday King to arrive. He let himself believe that the man who paired his gleaming crown with hunting plainclothes could be enough. Vortalis was a born ruler, ruthless when necessary, but charismatic too. At the beginning of his reign, Holland saw him sway an entire crowd with a few well-chosen words. Now Vortalis' grip on the Crown is slipping. They both know it. Words have proven to be feeble compared to the fissures that run through every occupant of the city. The wolves are at their door. They need something different. Something more. Something like magic. More than the meager supply White London has left. More even, than what Holland has to give. 

Wordlessly, Holland helps Vortalis into his chair by the fire before fetching a cloth and some hot water. When he returns the King has removed his stained gloves and is flexing his fingers in front of the flames. The runes inked into his skin are dark as a starless sky. He used magic. No wonder he looks so drained. Holland kneels in front of him and dips the cloth into the basin. He swirls it around once before gently touching it to Vortalis' face. The blood seeps into the fabric and rivulets of red run down Holland's wrist as he works. Vortalis closes his eyes and says, "We have people for that. You don't need to look after me." Holland dips the cloth again before wiping away more of the blood until he uncovers a pair of deep gashes across Vortalis' forehead and over his left cheek. "Holland," the King growls.  
"I want to do this. Sit still."  
Vortalis sighs and sinks deeper into the cushions. When his face is finally clean Holland touches a hand to the wounds and calls to his bone magic. Useful not only for manipulating the bodies of others to his will, but convincing flesh to heal. It should be easy. The wounds are deep but there is no damage to organs or other parts of the body that are harder to convince. But White London is starved for magic and Holland starves along with it. Even as an Antari there are limits to his power here.  
"Don't waste it on me," Vortalis orders.  
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of Holland's neck as the fire crackles behind him. Finally, he feels the warmth of the magic answering him. It starts deep in his gut and spreads outward until the hand pressed to Vortalis' face grows hot. When he removes it the cut is gone. He repeats the process on his friend's cheek before turning away so Vortalis' doesn't see the colour drain from his face.

He used to be so much more than this. Holland takes a steadying breath and looks back at the King slumped in his chair. He remembers the day in the woods when he first saw Vortalis. He was kneeling in the snow. It had only been two years since Talya's betrayal, and although she had not managed to kill Holland he was still living life as a ghost. Until Vortalis appeared, his hazel eyes gleaming, so unlike the hollow stares of most of White London's residents. He had given Holland a purpose. Knighted him. Promised him that if they worked together their bleak lives would change. Vortalis catches Holland staring and Hollan prepares himself for the inevitable questioning about Red London. Would Holland consider going? Would he grovel at the feet of the King and Queen who had ordered his London to be sealed away? Would he beg for mercy from the people who had condemned them to a life of fighting for scraps? No, he would not. The answer is already on his tongue, but Vortalis' question takes him by surprise. 

"Will you sit with me Hol?"  
Holland moves to grab another chair.  
"No. With me?" Vortalis reaches out to him. His fingernails are jagged. Bitten down to the quick. But his hands are strangely enticing; strong and calloused. They are the hands of someone who had worked for everything he has. Holland hesitates. His heart is thundering in his chest. The man before him is wiry and muscular. His face lined more with hardship than age. He is weathered and weary. So unlike Talya, with her nimble frame and easy laugh, but Talya had held a knife to his throat and Vor is only holding out a hand. Holland uncoils his muscles and walks over to Vortalis. The boundary between them breaks. Holland folds his frame into Vortalis' lap and after a moment of uncertainty settles his face into the crook of his friend's neck. He breathes in the scent of him. It is not exactly pleasant, dominated almost entirely by blood and sweat, but beneath that there is a whiff of pine and Holland focuses on that. Vor runs his hands across the small of Holland's back. His touch is far gentler than Holland had ever expected. A single tear trickles down his cheek and lands on Vor's shoulder. Vortalis doesn't ask questions, he just pulls Holland closer. For a stolen moment Holland has finally managed to shake the ceaseless chill of White London. It's the way using magic feels, but with none of the struggle, none of the pain. He falls asleep in front of the dying fire curled against the broad surface of Vor's chest. He wakes to a cup of coffee set beside him. It's weak but still warm. He takes a sip and everything makes sense. 

That night Holland watches his friend succumb to undetected poison in his goblet and blames himself for not doing more. With the death of the King, his beloved London is plunged back into chaos and it is all noise and no meaning. Then a sigil is carved into the flesh of his chest, by the cruel hands of a new King, and everything falls silent. 

*Now* 

Holland wakes up with blood in his mouth. The metal of his heavy shackles is so cold it burns his skin. Upon his arrest, the guards stripped him from the waist up so he wears nothing but worn grey pants so his scars are on full display. To Holland, this is a worse punishment than the chains. He's disoriented. The chains are leeching his magic and there's no window to track the rise and fall of the sun. Time doesn't exist in this place. There's nothing to distract him from the guilt festering deep in his gut. He closes his eyes seeking some respite, but all he sees are images of Red London destroyed by Osaron painted across his eyelids. 

Rapid footsteps signal to Holland that the other Antari chose to answer his summons. Holland opens his eyes but keeps his gaze lowered to the floor. He stares at Kell's boots which are so highly polished Holland can see a trace of his reflection in them. He's not afraid to meet the eyes of the man who nearly killed him. The truth is Kell freed him from the influence of the Dane twins. Holland had used every last bit of willpower he had to stop fighting. To let Kell win. He doesn't look at Kell because he doesn't want to see everything he could have been reflected back at him. So Holland speaks to Kell's boots as he lays his crimes bare. He tells Kell about the lives he took because he had no choice before he attempts to explain why he came back. Why he unleashed the horror of Osaron on Kell's London. He knows it isn't enough, words rarely are. It's his plan that matters. A plan to sacrifice himself. To make himself a vessel. To end this for good. When he finishes he dares to meet Kell's mismatched eyes and finds them far softer than he expected. The left one is bluer than he remembered. Holland's heart is racing so fast he fears Kell may see it pushing against the scarred sigil on his chest, distorting the skin to the point it is no longer recognizable. Kell runs a hand through his hair and says,  
"If this fails, you'll die."  
"At least my death will mean something."  
Kell nods and turns away. 

***

It's a long fall. Long enough Holland has time to feel a pang of regret before plunging into the maw of water below. He should have known his plan wouldn't work. The weight of his chains pulls him to the bottom of the river in a heartbeat. He knows there's no use in fighting. He'll never be free of this. He told Kell he was ready for death, but staring in the face of it his conviction falters. The certainty he felt in Black London, the idea he was meant for something more that inspired his deal with the devil, is gone. He knows it in his bones that he is not the hero. He just doesn't want to die the villain. He just doesn't want to die at all. He tries summoning his magic but it flickers out uselessly the moment the warmth reaches his wrists and touches the manacles affixed to them. He manages to struggle to his knees, held in place by the weight of his chains, and whispers every single word of power he knows, but the sound is lost to the water. A glint of red catches his eye and Holland fights against the current to tilt his chin up. It's Kell. Kell dove in after him. He didn't even take the time to shed his blood-red coat. Holland feels Kell's hands against his shoulders and despite his fear he shakes his head. As much as the thought of death is unbearable the thought of taking Kell with him is immeasurably worse. He is so short on oxygen his vision has begun to slide away and a feeling of icy calm is starting to override the adrenaline coursing through him. He should be grateful really, it's far better to succumb to the water than the will of Athos or Astrid. Here he can slip quietly and painlessly away. 

Kell does not let him go. Instead, he squeezes Holland's shoulders hard enough Holland feels Kell's nails break through his skin. With a jolt, Holland realizes the chains have dissolved. He kicks toward the surface. The light shimmers above him, a promise of yet another chance. He is about to breach the surface when he feels a dark presence ooze through the water. Holland knows it instantly. He knows it intimately. Osaron. Not after him but Kell. Osaron used him as a trap, knowing Kell would be noble enough to dive in and save him. Holland grabs a gulp of the cool air above before he turns and swims back down. Through the gloom, he notices another shape beside him. Lila. Holland points toward himself than to Kell. She gets the message, and swims straight to Kell, using her magic to build a bubble of air around the two of them. Leaving Holland to take on Osaron. Without his chains, his magic has returned. He reaches for it and the strength of it shocks him. So unlike the feeble trickle, he had back home. His magic in Red is a roaring river and Holland knows exactly what to do with it. Lila is trying to pull Kell out of the water with Osaron on her heels. Holland looks at the slack expression on Kell's face and feels anger rise within him and mix with the thrum of his magic. He channels it outward, pushing the water around them. Osaron is blown back by the force of it and for a moment his shadowy form grows limp. Holland strains to hold him there. The magic tears through him. Silently he begs Lila to get Kell to safety. Osaron recovers and counters Holland's attack with a wall of shadow. A scream rips itself from Holland's throat but is drowned by the rushing of the water. He feels himself losing. His magic beginning to burn through him. The last thing he hears is Osaron laugh before he plucked from the water and deposited on the bank in a tangle of limbs. Holland scrambles to his feet. His vision is fuzzy and tiny pinpricks of light swirl around him. Still, he manages to limp over to Kell who's lying prone in the grass. Kell cracks open an eye and Holland kneels beside him. Kell had come for him. Kell had saved him, and he had saved Kell. Holland brushes a damp lock Kell's hair out of his eyes. Both are open now.  
"Thank yo-" He whispers in the Antari's ear. The cool press of steel cuts his sentence short as Lila pushes her knife to his neck. She keeps it there until the King's guard haul him away. 

***

He is in the same cell. Bound by the same chains. Only this time instead of Osaron, it's the image of Kell soaked to the skin but alive that is burned into Holland's mind. He feels the nudge of a boot against his knee and snaps open his eyes. Kell stands before him, dressed for travel. He had a black cap perched jauntily on the waves of his hair and despite himself, Holland smiles.  
"We have a new plan. You're coming with us."  
"Whose us? Do I get a choice?"  
Kell ignores his question and replies,  
"I hope you have sea legs."

Holland does not have sea legs. He spends the entire first day leaning over the ship's railing. At night he sleeps fitfully. He dreams of Vortalis' for the first time since he left White London. His friend's body is grey and bloated, tossed listlessly by the waves. The horror in Holland rises to a crescendo. He retches but there's nothing left in him to vomit up. He hears footsteps and raises his aching head.  
"Holland?" Kell's voice is thick with pity.  
"What do you need?" Holland bites back. Kell doesn't respond, instead, he procures a key from one of his many pockets and frees Holland's hands from the cuffs.  
"Come. Get some fresh air with me."  
Holland sucks in a deep breath before following Kell out onto the deck. He relishes the cool touch of the breeze against his cheeks and the tang of salt in the air. From this vantage point, the boat no longer feels despicable. He fixes his gaze on the starlit sea and the rolling in his stomach subsides.  
"Why am I here?" He asks. Kell hesitates. Holland continues, "the walls are thin. Voices carry. We're on our way to get a magical object?"  
"An Inheritor." Kell offers.  
"Mmm and what is that exactly?"  
"It's a device that can store magic. We can use it to capture Osaron," he pauses then adds, "but it requires a sacrifice."  
"I'll do it."  
"I didn't ask you to."  
"You don't have to. You have Rhy and Lila's selfish and has no control over her power. It has to be me."  
"What if I don't trust you."  
"Osaron is mine. I'll finish this."  
Kell shifts beside Holland and reaches out to cup Holland's cheek.  
"Thank you." He whispers before retreating into the night. 

Kell returns to Holland's cabin the night after, determined to talk through the logistics. Holland dares to ask him what he will offer in exchange for the Inheritor. Apparently, Kell's coat is not a good suggestion. Kell's face darkens and Holland raises his hands in surrender, "I was only joking."  
"I didn't think you were capable of making jokes." Kell retorts.  
"I was once."  
"And now?" He asks.  
Holland leans towards him. He used to find the scent of Kell's magic cloying. Like the floral perfume worn by the nobility in Red, but out on the open ocean, it's tolerable. Perhaps even pleasant.  
"Things are different."  
Kell smiles. It's small. Just the corners of his lips twitching upwards, but on his face which is usually set in a permanent scowl, it's significant. Against Holland's better judgment, he reaches for the Antari. His hand spread across the worn surface of the table. Wide-open and vulnerable, just like Vor's all those years ago. Kell stares into his palm and slowly lowers his hand into Holland's. Holland runs his thumb across Kell's hands marveling at how smooth they are. The knowledge of his sacrifice makes him reckless and he raises Kell's knuckles to his lips just as a flurry of activity above them announces the Captain's return. Without Lila. 

***

Holland doesn't expect a thank you. Helping save Lila's life is nothing more than repaying a tiny drop of the damage he has done. What he doesn't expect is for Lila to come storming into his cabin the moment she can stand and fling accusations at him about the death of a man he killed while under the Dane's spell. He knows there is no reasoning with Lila, no explaining to her that his actions were beyond his control. Grief is a suppressant to logic. Holland knows that. He doesn't offer her excuses. Just the truth,  
"I didn't hesitate to kill him. I cut his throat and added his death to the number I count every day I'm awake."  
"Now tell me. How many lives have you ended? Do you even know?"  
She slams the door when she leaves but Holland can hear her stomp over to Kell's cabin. Holland knows he shouldn't listen. Whatever is happening between Kell and Lila is far from his business, but it's hard to ignore the frantic whispers echoing through the walls. At some point, he hears a glass shatter. Afterward, their voices are loud enough for him to make out clearly.  
"You may hate him Lila, but I don't have that luxury. I caused this as much as he did."  
"You are nothing like him."  
"No, you're nothing like him, but Lila, I am."  
Lila curses and slams his door too. Holland breathes into the darkness. Of course, he already knew about Kell's ridiculous notions of blaming himself for the problems he caused. That's nothing new, but he knows he will stay up all night wondering what Kell meant when he said they were alike. Perhaps it's a waste of one of his final nights. They should arrive at the Pirate market tomorrow and if all goes according to plan with the inheritor it will soon be time for him to sacrifice himself to set things right. Holland is just beginning to mull it over when he hears footsteps, far softer this time, and undeniably Kell's.  
"Are you awake?" Kell whispers cracking the door open.  
"I am."  
"Can I come in?"  
"Of course." 

The mattress groans in protest as Holland sits up. He is about to ask Kell what he wants but Kell is already stalking over to the bed. His jaw is set and his eyes flash in the lantern light.  
"I'm guessing you heard that," Kell says sitting at Holland's feet.  
"Not all of it but enough. What did you mean? When you said you and I were the same?"  
Kell considers before he replies,  
"I don't know exactly. We both crave power but deny it. We both would do anything to save the cities we love. We're always shouldering the blame. Take your pick."  
Holland takes Kell's hand and holds it over his racing heart.  
"What about this? Are we the same in this way." Kell swallows and Holland watches his throat bob. Then he leans into Holland's touch until they are a hairsbreadth away from each other.  
"Can I show you?" Kell asks, his voice is raw.  
Holland nods and then Kell kisses him. One of Holland's hands finds its way into Kell's hair the other splays across the warm skin of his chest. Kell smiles against his lips and wraps his arms around Holland's waist, pulling him closer before pressing him down into the mattress. Kell's lips chart a course down Holland's neck and he deftly removes Holland's shirt exposing the mess of scars beneath. Kell doesn't balk at them. He's seen them before. He simply continues lower and lower. Soon, Kell has him gripping the sheets and arching his back in pleasure, and Holland is happy to return the favor. When they're finished Holland holds Kell against his chest and Kell rests his head in the crook of Holland's neck. Holland wants to weep, he wants to kiss Kell again. He wants to cheer or scream or do something. Anything. He wants to live. So badly, but he has a debt to settle.  
"I don't want to lose you," Holland whispers holding Kell to his chest. Kell doesn't bother with empty promises. He simply wraps his arms around Holland and holds him close.

***

Being split from his magic is agony beyond sensation. Holland can't see or hear or smell. His entire world narrows to the feeling in his gut as it slips away fraction by fraction. It takes all of his strength to keep his grip on the Inheritor, while it swallows Osaron deep inside. When it's all gone he collapses. There is a cavity within him. It's the feeling of winters in White London. Of having eaten nothing but a hard bread three days ago. He is hollow. Beyond repair. Yet somehow alive. Kell is beside him. Holland feels him take the residual damage. To protect Lila. A hero until the end. Holland wants to apologize but he can't form the words. He wishes he had enough magic to defeat Osaron without Kell's help. Darkness blurs the corners of his vision. He feels Kell's tears wet against his face. Then he feels nothing. 

When Holland wakes up he is still in red London but no longer in a cell. The room is sparse and smells clinical. They probably had the palace physician look at him, but Holland knows he is beyond saving. He is an Antari without magic. He is nothing. He opens his eyes which are caked with sleep and stares at the red blur in the corner of the room. His eyes don't need to focus for him to know it's Kell. Holland reaches out to him. Kell's hand is warm in his and Holland manages a sliver of a smile.  
"Hello." He croaks.  
Kell doesn't respond he just runs a finger over Holland's cheek.  
"We did it."  
"You did it... your magic's gone."  
Holland nods and Kell continues, "and your hair went white, but I think you're going to be alright." He smooths Holland's hair away from his forehead.  
"I'm dying Kell. I can feel it."  
Kell falls back into silence still stroking Holland's hair.  
"Will you take me back to White London. I want to see it one more time."  
Still nothing. "Please, Kell it's all I ask."  
Kell pauses for a long moment before he lifts Holland out of bed before leading him to his chambers where he has all the sigils for all the London's upon the walls. Kell withdraws a dagger from the pocket of his coat and touches it to one of the symbols.  
"As travars," He whispers still keeping a firm grip on Holland.  
Holland feels the world fall away and he closes his eyes ready to be greeted by a world of white. To finally be home.

When he opens his eyes they are in a dimly lit shop. It's not White London. The air smells different here. A man sits at the bar toying with a child's element set.  
"Kell," Holland growls. He feels a point of pain pierces his heart. He doesn't have the strength to get to White now and by the looks of it neither does Kell, who is swaying a little on his feet. He'll never get to go home.  
Kell smiles at him in response and leads him over to the man at the bar.  
"Ned do you have a mirror?" Kell asks. The man nods giving Kell a look of reverent awe before retreating into a back room. He returns with a small mirror in an ornate silver frame. He hands it to Kell who hands it to Holland. Holland raises an eyebrow at Kell before holding the mirror up to himself. He notices it instantly. The colour is returning to his hair. The white darkening to black like someone spilled ink upon his head. His reflection stares back at him. Normal. Except for a matched set of green eyes.  
"Welcome to Grey London." Says Kell.  
"The London without magic?" Holland questions.  
"The London where an Antari without magic can survive."  
Kell crushes Holland to his chest. Ned says something about getting them a drink and Holland pulls Kell into a kiss. When they finally break apart Kell whispers, "my magic isn't as strong now but I'll visit when I can."  
"Kell you brilliant creature," Holland replies kissing him again. Kell pulls away with a smile,  
"You're free Holland. You're finally free."


End file.
